We go through the rest of the exchange in silence, him pouring me a draft and me handing over some cash that I also took from Micah, like the leech that I am. But the first sip tastes like cold, hard relief, and I immediately know that coming here was a good idea.
I can face Micah and my failures in an hour. They’ll still be there.
It’s slow, so the bartender isn’t very busy. He mostly cleans and fiddles with the little tubs of things behind the bar, or chats with the woman who seems to be working with him. He doesn’t strike up a conversation with me, but that’s not surprising. Nothing about my appearance was designed to be inviting.
I’m halfway through my beer and feeling more light-headed than I should, because apparently a couple weeks of near-death and medication purging have turned me into a lightweight. It also makes me relaxed enough to loosen my tongue.
I gesture to the bartender, and he moves toward me, his expression placid and calm in that way only deeply confident, emotionally stable people can really master. It makes me a little jealous.
“Is this a gay bar?”
They weren’t the words that I intended to come out of my mouth, but they’re the ones my brain shoved out before anything else could get there.
The man’s expression becomes guarded, and I can see him taking me in, like I just crossed the line from customer to potential threat.
“No, but we’re welcoming to everyone, and I like to make sure people know that. There aren’t always places around here where people can be themselves, and this is a safe space for that. Is that a problem?” His tone is measured and even.
I shake my head. “No. My, uh. My brother’s gay. I was just asking.”
That makes him look a little shocked, his eyes widening slightly, and I see him give me another once-over subtly before he leans back.
“Okay. Well, he’s more than welcome here. Along with anyone else who isn’t going to be an idiot and cause trouble.”
Pointed, but sure.
“Is there any chance you’re hiring?” I spit out, because my brain to mouth filter has been nullified by half a fucking beer, apparently.
He cocks his head at me. “Your brother needs a job?”
“Not him.” I shake my head, looking down at my beer and then up again. “Me. I’m looking for work, and I’m having trouble finding anything.”
He pauses for longer than is socially acceptable, like he’s turning something over in his mind. Eventually his eyes narrow, and he moves closer before he responds in a quiet voice.
“I thought you already had a job,” he says, tapping his neck in the same spot that my Banna tattoo sits.
Ahh. So, he’s less innocent than the waistcoat and fancy cologne made me assume.
The trouble is, it’s impossible to explain my situation to anyone, let alone when I can’t actually say anything.
“I…” I trail off and look around, even though I know there’s no one near us. My throat feels tight for some reason. When I look back at him, there’s this kind of weird empathy on his face. Not like pity, which I fucking hate, but like he gets what I’m about to say. “Not right now. I’m on sabbatical, I guess. I just want a real job, but I can’t do paperwork or anything like that. I can work, I swear. I don’t cause trouble. I just need something… normal. Please.”
He nods, and that empathetic, understanding expression stays on his face.
“Well, I already know you’re not a cop, so I can do under the table. The pay is shit but if you want to be a barback for me, I could use the help. It’s easy. Safe.”
The last word hits me like a kick in the gut, and I blink a couple of times before I know how to answer him.
“Yeah. Yeah, uh, thank you. That would be great.”
“I’m Gunnar,” he says, offering me his hand to shake.
I take it, and he squeezes it, reaching out to cover it with his other for a second, like I’ve seen grandfathers and shit do on TV.
“I can’t have trouble here,” he says, holding my gaze. “But I know what it’s like to need a little help sometimes. If you just need to get distance from something. If you show up and behave yourself, I’m happy to help as much as I can.”
Well, shit. I don’t know what to say to that, and the man is still holding my hand while he looks me in the eye, making my nerves crawl into my throat and seal it shut.
I cough a little, pulling my hand back to safety.
